


Hologram

by Rovelae



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Another VR simulation, Escapism, Future Foundation but it was founded by Makoto so it doesn't suck, Graphic Suicidal Ideation, Kokichi-typical trust issues, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, postgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26173420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovelae/pseuds/Rovelae
Summary: Nothing’s wrong when nothing’s true.Kokichi’s never going back to the real world. In this simulation, he doesn’t have to think about the game, doesn’t have to look into the eyes of all the friends he couldn’t save. He’s never leaving this place, and nothing will ever convince him to.Not even the surprisingly persistent computer program that looks and acts a bit too much like a certain detective.
Relationships: Ouma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 44
Kudos: 401
Collections: Quality Fics





	Hologram

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Lorde’s “Buzzcut Season” -> https://youtu.be/pstVCGyaUBM  
> (Additional CWs in end notes—it does get pretty dark, so please click away if you’re not in a good place mentally rn.)

“One Salty Pimp, please.”

“Sure thing!” chirps the cashier, manicured nails tapping his order into the register. Kokichi swipes the credit card at the keypad and steps back to wait, idly following the cashier with his eyes as she moves to the soft serve ice cream machine. Hers is the same character model they used for the hotel registrar, he notes. Same curly blonde ponytail, same little bounce in her step.

It’s not important. They got lazy on a lot of these characters. Like the old lady reading in the library, who’s just a cheap recoloration of the one who does sudoku in the diner. Probably has the same programming, too—

_It’s fine._

He exhales in a low hiss between clenched teeth. “Natsuki.”

“Hm? Say again?” She turns back to him from where she’s dipping the ice cream cone into melted chocolate.

“Natsuki. That’s your name.”

“Haha! If you say so.”

“Where are you from, Natsuki?” Kokichi asks, hopping up onto the edge of one of the dining tables and swinging his legs in the way he knows makes him look half his age.

“Right here on Jabberwock Island!” Natsuki moves to the area on the counter with all the toppings, and sprinkles sea salt with a flourish on the still-melted chocolate. “Lived here all my life.”

“You live on the fifth island, in a beach house with your mom, dad, and little brother,” Kokichi decides. “You own a gerbil and want to learn how to design websites.”

“Haha! If you say so.”

“Do you like working here, Natsuki?”

“Sure do! The pay’s not bad, and our ice cream’s the best in town.”

“Not hardly! The shop across the street has grape sherbet. You’ll never be _that_ good.”

“Haha! If you say so.”

“…You do know it’s impossible to make grape sherbet, right? There’s too much water in them, so you get ice chunks and it’s nasty.”

“Hmm, I don’t know that.”

“There’s not even a shop across the street.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure.”

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Haha! That’s a good one.” Natsuki drizzles some of the weird carmel stuff on top of the ice cream cone and flashes a pearly-white smile as she hands it over the counter. “There you go! One Salty Pimp!”

Kokichi eases his hands out of the fists he hadn’t realized he’d clenched them into and takes it, biting the topmost swirl off with his teeth in the way he knows makes most people cringe. _Your tribute is acceptable. I’ll spare your life for now,_ he wants to say, but he’d only get another _Haha! If you say so_ in response, so— “It’s great, thanks.”

“Yep! Have a good day!”

“It’s evening,” he calls over his shoulder on his way out.

“Haha! If you say so.”

There’s a cloud of seagulls hovering in the air around him, and a dozen or so more standing just out of reach, staring him down with beady black eyes. Kokichi takes a slice of bread from the loaf he’s holding and tosses it to one of the birds, watches it catch it and stumble under the weight, watches its head bob as it tries to swallow the whole thing at once. It gets remarkably far before four other birds descend on it, shrieking wildly.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he mumbles into his folded arms, wondering if Shuichi would get the reference.

He really wishes Shuichi was here.

Kokichi upends the rest of the loaf of bread onto the sidewalk and laughs at the resulting chaos until his chest aches.

“Oh, Usaaami….”

“Ha-wa-wa—wha-ah? Kokichi! How… h-how did you get in—”

“Through the door, dummy.”

“B-but … b-b-but but but—”

“You have a _pin tumbler lock,”_ Kokichi explains with exaggerated patience. “And there’s not even a deadbolt on your door. Anyone could get in.”

“O-o-ooh!” Usami’s ears droop. “How embarrassing! A teacher with a student in her home…so disgraceful…so unwholesome…!”

“You’re a rabbit,” he reminds her, walking along the perimeter of the room and inspecting the obnoxious blue and yellow wallpaper, the cutesy heart-shaped rug in the center of the floor, the blindingly pink canopy on the ceiling. “Hey, you ever get tired of the innocent, airheaded magical girl routine?”

Usami puts a paw to her chin in a pose that’s far too familiar. “Um? What do you mean?”

“Just wondering when you’re going to turn black and white and talk about murder motives,” Kokichi muses, inspecting the sparkling pink treasure chest in the corner.

“Black and—AH!” Usami bursts into tears behind him. “That’s so mean! I keep telling you I have nothing to do with Monokuma!”

It takes Kokichi all of five seconds to pick open the padlock on the chest. “Give me one good reason why I should believe anything you tell me,” he says, but tunes out her response. He’s got something much more interesting to occupy his attention.

Specifically, a small notebook, covered in pink glitter and stick-on plastic gems.

_Day 2: Hajime told Kokichi about the Future Foundation today! I think Kokichi’s still sad about what Team Danganronpa did to his personality. :(_

He scoffs. The crayon drawings in here are worse than the decoy blueprints he’d left in his room in the game. At least those had been bad on purpose.

_Day 11: Shuichi came to visit! He’s really nice and he made Kokichi smile!_

_Day 30: Kokichi figured out he doesn’t need to eat in the simulation! Or maybe he just forgot to eat? For three days? Uh oh!_

What exactly does she _gain_ from watching his every move…?

_Day 67: I tried to see if Kokichi wanted to play a game today, but he said to leave him alone. Maybe he’s still scared of me?_

_Day 89: Rantaro asked Hajime again if he could come into the simulation. I don’t know why Kokichi doesn’t want to see him._

_Day 103: This island is supposed to be a happy place! What’s wrong?_

On and on and on—

“Heeey! Nooo! You’re not supposed to look in there!”

Kokichi snaps the diary shut and stands up, holding it just out of Usami’s reach. “Oh? But you just left it out in the open like that.”

“Did not!” Usami’s stubby arms flail as she hops up and down, as if any second now she’ll get lucky and jump high enough to grab her book. “I put it safe and sound in my treasure box! Please give it back!”

“There’s something I want from you first.”

“Huh?” The hopping stops. “What do you need?”

“You’re the moderator for this game, right?” Kokichi says. “Everything that happens on the islands has to go through you first. Right?”

“Um…yes? Kind of.”

“So you can control anything that happens here, right?”

Usami taps her paws together shyly. “Almost everything,” she admits.

“Good.” Kokichi smiles, all teeth. “Turn on the Shuichi AI, please.”

The stuffed rabbit blinks.

“Th-the, um … the what?”

“The fake Shuichi. The one that comes to talk to me every few days.” Kokichi’s smile slips into the slightly more unsettling one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes the way it should. “I want you to keep it on indefinitely. Do it and I’ll never bother you again.”

“Umm….” Evidently she’s having a hard time processing something. “If you want me to tell Hajime to ask Shuichi to visit more, then—”

“What part of what I said was confusing?” Kokichi drops the smile altogether. “This social isolation really isn’t doing my psyche any favors, and your Shuichi is the only program that acts like a real person. Just turn it on and we won’t have any problems.”

“But … but I can’t!” Usami cries. “Shuichi can’t just come into the simulation to stay!”

“I’m not talking about the real Shuichi,” he snaps. “Use the AI that you normally use. You know what,” he adds, cutting her off, “you’re right, it was dumb to think I could reason with you. That’s not how this game works, is it?”

“But Shuichi isn’t an AI!” Usami says as Kokichi moves past her toward the door. “Hey! Wait!”

“I’m going to hang onto this until you decide to cooperate,” he says, waving the notebook in farewell. “Don’t make me bored enough to light it on fire.”

“But, Kokichi, Shuichi’s a real pers—”

He slams the door shut behind him.

He dreams that DICE is here in the simulation with him, smiling and carefree as they explore the weird music venue. One of them has gotten the karaoke machine working, and another found a box of kazoos and maracas in the back room. Kokichi already pities anyone unfortunate enough to walk by the building tonight.

“Not going to sing, Joker?” one of his DICE asks (over the sound of their youngest member shrieking through seven kazoos at once), sitting on the bench next to him.

“Some games are more fun to watch than play,” he answers, leaning back on his hands and sighing.

“Like a killing game.”

The warm dream-atmosphere turns cold then, and Kokichi’s head snaps over to look at him—but his brother is gone and Kaito’s looking back at him instead, blood in his teeth and face ashen pale.

“You... we don’t have to do this, man,” Kaito says, but it’s a lie and they both know it, and he doesn’t want to look behind him because he knows the machine’s looming over him with its unyielding steel and slow slow slow descent—

“You’re not real,” he snaps at dream-Kaito, who doesn’t respond except to lift him up again. “Nothing’s real, none of—PUT ME DOWN! LET GO OF ME! DON’T PUT ME BACK IN THERE!”

“Death is more mercy than you deserve,” Kaito says, and Kokichi claws and bites and kicks his way out of Kaito’s grasp like a wild animal, only to end up in front of a prison cell full of—

DICE, his beloved DICE, trapped and hurt and afraid, bloodied and beaten and helpless.

“Why didn’t you save us, boss?” says his second-in-command, clutching the bars with bleeding hands. “Why didn’t you do more? Now we’re all dead and it’s because of _you.”_

He wakes up screaming, and spends the rest of the night huddled under a blanket on the floor, alternating between hyperventillating and sobbing, ignoring the rabbit knocking on the door and asking if he needs help.

Kokichi waits to open his eyes until the footsteps crunching in the beach sand are right next to him. It’s exactly the person he doesn’t want to talk to. How boring.

“Morning, Kokichi,” the man says. “Is this a private sulk?”

“Eye guy,” he returns evenly, inclining his head. “Yes, it is.”

Hinata blinks his mismatched eyes and, apparently, decides not to comment on the nickname. “How are you feeling?” he asks instead, sitting down.

“Can we skip this part?” Kokichi doesn’t move. The sand’s warm and nice and soft at his back, and he’s busy imagining that the waves hissing along the shore are dragging all of his bad memories out to sea with them. “Better yet, just leave me alone. I already know what you are, so there’s no point in keeping up the good-cop charade.”

“And what do you think I am this time?” Hinata sighs.

He’s making him say it. Making him admit the truth about this world again. Kokichi grits his teeth—no way he’s about to give him the satisfaction.

“Monokuma’s reverse-fursona,” he says instead. “Come to torment me for my sins.”

“I’m a real person from outside the simulation, Kokichi. You and I are the only real people in this place.”

“Please.” Kokichi rolls his eyes. “You’re a social worker for the people who sent me on this vacation and you want to take me somewhere I don’t want to go.”

“Vacation…?” The worry lines on Hinata’s forehead deepen. “You’re still not calling it what it is.”

“Va-ca-tion,” Kokichi repeats. “An all-expenses-paid getaway to an island paradise with all the isolation a boy could ask for.”

“Kokichi….”

“And this credit card thing doesn’t even max out! Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Kokichi, you know how unhealthy this is.”

“You know what’s even more unhealthy? I don’t think I’ve eaten anything but junk food in _weeks,_ and yet somehow, I can still function normally. It’s awesome!”

“The simulation is meant to be a safe transition from the killing game to real life,” Hinata says quietly. “You can’t stay here indefinitely.”

And suddenly there’s a spark of something between fury and desperation that flares to life in his ribcage. He rises to a sitting position as blood begins churning in his ears.

“Or what?” he challenges icily.

Hinata doesn’t scare easily, Kokichi knows, and when he turns his gaze to the ocean, it doesn’t feel like he’s backing down. “Do you know what this … _island paradise_ represents, Kokichi?” he asks, and Kokichi’s really not in the mood for a lecture but he continues anyway. “Jabberwock Island … was the setting for the fiftieth season of Danganronpa. The golden anniversary, they called it. It was my season.”

Kokichi hunches over, hugging his arms over his torso and stifiling a scream. He does _not_ want to think about this right now—

“They wanted it to be the best season of all, which, unfortunately for us, meant it was also the bloodiest,” Hinata says. “Twice as many participants, deadly traps hidden across each of the islands—they even changed the way the motives worked, like when they told Fuyuhiko to cut out his own eye so Peko could have a quick death instead of suffering for days.”

“Do I look like your therapist, porcupine-head?” Kokichi hisses. A sharp pain is pounding into his skull, and there’s a bitter, metallic taste at the back of his throat. A taste like poison and blood.

“There was so much going on that the simulation malfunctioned,” Hinata says. “When people died, their Ultimate talents downloaded themselves into me. I’m told that the stress of so many personality grafts came close to liquefying my frontal lobe. I’m lucky I woke up at all… especially considering more than half of the others didn’t.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Kokichi grates out through the static building in his head. If he opens his eyes, will he see the beach or the dull chrome of the machine closing in on him?

“Because I know how much you want to forget about what happened,” Hinata says. “Believe me, _I get it.”_

Kokichi shakes his head furiously, fingernails digging into his scalp. “I’m not going to wake up. You can’t make me.”

“Hiding from your problems like this is only going to hurt you more, Kokichi.”

“Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up—”

“These things that happened to us… we can’t erase them, no matter how much we want to. Some things have to be remembered.”

 _“SHUT UP!”_ He launches himself at Hinata, his hands wrapping around the other man’s throat as he uses his momentum to slam him to the ground. _“SHUT! UP!”_

“Ko— _ghk—”_ Hinata coughs, eyes wide with surprise, but aside from moving his hands up to grip Kokichi’s wrists, he doesn’t seem all that worried about fighting back.

The thought only fuels Kokichi’s rage until he’s choking Hinata so hard his knuckles are white. “If you want me out of this simulation so badly, you can _kill me,_ because I’m never waking up! I’m _never leaving,_ do you _UNDERSTAND ME?”_

Hinata grimaces, the outline of his avatar flickering, but he still doesn’t struggle, and Kokichi hates him all the more for it, _despises_ him with a seething malice that festers low in his stomach. He wonders distantly if he’d actually kill this man in real life. Or if he’d be able to stop himself, feeling like _this._

“I’ve had enough of you sadists and your sick games,” he spits. “Didn’t you get enough of seeing me suffer when you watched me kill three of my friends? Did you honestly think I wanted to be brought back to life after everything I’ve done? Do you think I don’t _know_ that I deserved everything I got a hundred times over?” A high-pitched, crazed laugh spills out of him like a pot boiling over. “I’m done! I’m done pretending to be a good person! So until you psychopaths decide to let me _die,_ I’m going to stay _right here._ Leave me _alone,_ or just let me _die already,_ let me _die,_ _someone,_ just _kill me….”_

He doesn’t know at what point Hinata logged out of the simulation—only that when the flashbacks clear away from his vision and he can breathe normally again, he’s on his knees with tears stinging behind his eyes, clawing at nothing but sand.

The motive video had shown him nine figures and called them his family. Nine clowns in masks and checkered scarves, each one so achingly familiar that he could practically draw them with his eyes closed. Even so, he keeps his eyes open so he can memorize the faces he copies from his mind onto the notebook page.

The sound of the wind in the trees of Jabberwock Park lulls him into an almost meditative state, drowning out the noise of his thoughts and helping him focus on recreating the dreamlike fragments of memory into something more tangible. He’s no Ultimate Artist, but he’s good enough that it’s really _them,_ looking back at him. Her… _her,_ with her braided brown hair and shy demeanor. And… _him,_ with his quiet, slow voice and levelheadedness. Then … _that one,_ and the way he throws back his head when he laughs.

Nine siblings and no names.

Or, if Hajime is to be believed—and he probably is—nine implanted memories that ultimately mean nothing because they never actually existed in the first place.

Was it stupid for him to be mourning for them, then…?

“Um… Kokichi?”

The pencil slips from his hand.

_He’s back._

Kokichi surges forward and catches Shuichi in a hug that makes him stumble, he’s _here,_ he’s finally _here_ and that means everything’s finally going to be okay—

“Ow—um, your grip’s a little tight—ah, are you okay, Kokichi?”

He’s really not; it’s hard to breathe with the way his throat is clenching and he wants to stay here with his face buried in Shuichi’s chest forever. This— _this_ is paradise; how had he survived so long without it? Shuichi’s finally, _finally here—_

“U-uh, Kokichi? I’m… I might fall over if you keep….” Shuichi pauses, and his hands come to rest on Kokichi’s back as he tentatively returns the embrace. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

If the shaking of Kokichi’s shoulders is any indication, he’s not going to be able to keep his composure the normal way, so when he looks up, he exaggerates the tears that are already spilling down his cheeks. “Of course I’m not okay!” he wails. “You were gone for nineteen years!”

“It was only a week,” Shuichi says with a little chuckle, and his hug becomes a bit more confident.

“A week!” Kokichi scoffs. “I was about to die of a broken heart, Shuichi! You’re so cruel!”

“I’m sorry…. There was a press conference, and I had to go to Kyoto again. I didn’t mean to make you lonely….”

“Those aren’t even good excuses!” Kokichi says, but it comes out a bit too sincere for his liking, so he tacks on, “Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness!”

“Ah, I’d rather not…. Maybe we could just hang out instead?”

“Fine, fine, I guess that’s good enough. It doesn’t sound _too_ boring.”

(Shuichi’s never boring.)

“Great. Um… do you think you could… let me go now?”

Oh. It’s weird to cling onto people this long, isn’t it? Kokichi pushes away from him, hoping the residual tears aren’t as noticeable. “So, does this mean I win?”

“Win…?”

“My battle of attrition with Usami! Is she finally going to do what I asked?”

“Ah, I did hear about what happened with Usami,” Shuichi muses. His attention goes to the sketchbook Kokichi had discarded on the ground. “Is that her log book?”

“Nope! It’s a decoy,” Kokichi says as the detective picks it up. “Hey, you didn’t answer my question….”

His gentle hands smooth out the crinkles in the page, brushing away a stray blade of grass, and he stops suddenly. “This is DICE,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it.”

Kokichi doesn’t respond.

Almost reverently, Shuichi closes the notebook. “Sorry. You probably didn’t want me to look in here.”

“It’s fine,” Kokichi says, but it kind of isn’t and suddenly he doesn’t want to think about DICE or Usami or memories or anything like that anymore, so when Shuichi hands him the notebook, he leaves it on the park bench and changes the subject. “So what do you want to do today? Maybe visit the amusement park? You still haven’t gone on that roller coaster with me, you know!”

“I told you, I get motion sick,” Shuichi protests. He tugs on his collar and clears his throat. “Actually, I was thinking… um, you technically don’t need to eat at all since you’re hooked up to the IVs, but… you told Hajime you were only eating sweets, and I heard one of the technicians say that even simulating eating a square meal can be psychologically beneficial, s-so… so I was wondering if you’d, um, want to go to… maybe to the restaurant at the hotel f-for dinner?”

He’s so _unfairly_ cute when he’s blushing that Kokichi can’t help but laugh. _“Nishishi!_ Mr. Detective’s taking me out for a fancy dinner? Is this a date, beloved?”

“H-huh? No! N-no, I-I was just—I, uh, I just thought—”

“Aww, and here I was gonna make out with you so ferociously you’d see stars….”

_“K-Kokichi!”_

Warm yellow-orange light casts a relaxed, cozy glow over the dining hall. It’s an ambience compounded by the flickering candles on the table, which seems overly idyllic, but Kokichi will let it slide because of the adorable way Shuichi flushed when he noticed them as they sat down. Well, if he’s being honest, everything about Shuichi right now is adorable, from the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes to the way he’s nervously fiddling wth his chopsticks. Kokichi wishes he could keep staring at him forever.

Ah, not… not in a weird way, though, just… because Shuichi’s beautiful, and when Kokichi looks at him he can forget everything bad that’s ever happened, can create some new and brighter world to exist in.

At least, he might be able to if he could stop jumping at every other sound in the restaurant. His eyes keep darting over to scan the other diners and tables, looking for anything the slightest bit unusual. A cluster of surveillance cameras, maybe, or a monochromatic stuffed bear. Something to warn him that he’s finally snapped and is hallucinating this whole thing. It’s too perfect, feels too much like the dreams he keeps having, and if he keeps thinking this way his brain’s going to lock onto the fact that Shuichi’s not acutally—

_Shut up shut up shut up—_

“Hey….”

Kokichi jolts when a tentative hand touches his, and Shuichi pulls back immediately.

“Ah—sorry, you just looked kind of tense, I… is everything okay?”

Everything is _not_ okay, he’s talking to—

_Stop it!_

Shuichi, he’s talking to Shuichi. Kokichi has to swallow twice before he can find the words to respond. “Just… just shocked that Shuichi has such awful taste! Tempura udon, really? That’s the most boring food on the planet!”

“It’s not boring!” Shuichi pouts, nibbling at a mushroom. “Just because the flavors are more muted…. I don’t understand how you can enjoy things that are so _spicy.”_

“What’s the fun in eating something that doesn’t make you feel alive?” Kokichi picks up a cube of potato from his curry, examining it between the points of his chopsticks. “Besides, how do you know it’s spicy if you’ve never tried it?”

“Because I can smell the cayenne from over here—”

“Come on!” Kokichi leans forward, waving the chopsticks in Shuichi’s face. “Don’t be a baby, Mr. Detective-who-probably-doesn’t-even-eat-wasabi-with-his-sashimi!”

“I-I just don’t like….”

“Bread-And-Water Shuichi! Ayn Bland! Shuichi ‘Oatmeal’ Saihara!”

“A-all right, all right….”

And Shuichi leans forward and takes the bite right off of Kokichi’s chopsticks.

Kokichi freezes in place as his heart suddenly decides to stop working. By the way Shuichi’s averting his eyes, Kokichi guesses he’d surprised himself just as much, but he still plays it off casually, chewing with a light grimace and then swallowing and quickly reaching for his glass of water.

“Ow. Yeah, that’s… it just goes straight to the back of my throat, and then I start coughing….” He clears his throat and takes another sip of water. “I guess I can see what you mean by it making you feel alive.”

“I… uh-huh.” Kokichi deflects by chugging his own drink, something carbonated and so sweet it tastes burnt. He shouldn’t feel as flustered as he does, but his cheeks are on fire for reasons that have nothing to do with capsaicin and all he can think about is that Shuichi technically just indirectly kissed him. How is he—how can he just—how can he _do these things_ to him?

“I think I like udon because there’s more to it than just the taste,” Shuichi’s saying, and he has _no right_ to look that innocent. “Like the texture, for example. It’s sort of springy and chewy, you know?”

Kokichi hums noncomittally, not sure where Shuichi’s going with this until he holds out his own chopsticks and a few udon noodles with them.

Shuichi’s actually going to kill him one of these days.

“Ah, you have to eat slowly, though,” Shuichi says as Kokichi takes the bite and tries desperately to stop blushing. “Focus on what it feels like. How the noodles have their own flavor, but they also soak up the flavor of the broth and the shrimp.”

“Hmm.” He closes his eyes and tries not to think that _it’s not the udon he wants to savor_.

“It’s not too dense, but it’s still filling, even if the broth itself is thin.”

“Mm-hmm….”

“And udon is known for being easy on the stomach, so… for me, at least, it’s sort of … calming? Th-that’s what I think, anyway,” Shuichi finishes, and Kokichi opens his eyes again to one of those soft, insecure smiles that make his heart ache. “Um, what do you think?”

Kokichi sits back, studying the wood grain of the table. “Calming,” he agrees, and it is, but Shuichi’s gentle words and shy smile and melted-gold eyes are even more so, and for the first time in days he’s starting to feel like a real person again.

 _This is okay,_ he thinks. In this world, nothing’s wrong, no one’s hurt and Shuichi’s here. Shuichi’s here, on vacation with him, safe in this place where nothing else has to exist.

Yeah.

Nothing’s wrong, and nothing bad has ever happened to them. Maybe DICE is here, too, sure. They’d have set this date(?) up themselves after they’d gotten sick of his pining, somehow bribed their favorite detective into meeting with their thief lord without masks, without heists, without being surrounded by cops. They’d be watching from the windows, now, or from different booths wearing ridiculous disguises, snapping not-so-discreet pictures to blackmail him with later on.

And he’d get unhelpful texts all throughout the night ( _KISS HIM, you dummy!_ or _Boss is BLUSHING, look!)_ until he turned off his phone, and then he and Shuichi would take a walk outside and look at the stars, and he’d figure out more ways to make Shuichi laugh and Shuichi would look at him all studiously, like he really _sees_ him, and maybe Kokichi would finally work up the courage to mumble _I really like you, you know._

And Shuichi would smile and—

 _Ah,_ he thinks to himself, _you’re delusional._

_But it’s such a nice lie._

Eventually, Shuichi sets down his bowl and looks away with a little sigh, and Kokichi clenches his teeth because that’s the sigh he does when it’s time for _that conversation._

“Um… Kokichi?”

Kokichi’s only response is to exhale the breath he’d been holding in a quiet hiss.

“I-I know you don’t want to, but… but I really need to talk to you about something,” Shuichi says. “Please?”

“My Mr. Detective can talk about whatever he’d like!” Kokichi says with a lilt to his tone that makes it sound more sarcastic than he wants it to. He takes the last bite of curry and wishes that it burns hot enough to hurt.

“It’s about Kaito.”

Shuichi’s weighing his every action, watching for a response, he knows—so he’s careful not to give one at all. He chews painstakingly slowly, staring at the condensation on his soda glass, then swallows and sets the chopsticks down in an X over his plate. When he speaks, his voice has the same practiced indifference that he wears on his face.

“What about him?”

Shuichi folds his hands on the table. “I know that there’s … there’s a lot between you two after … everything,” he begins, but stops and bites his lip. Then, as if changing tactics, “You’ve told me you don’t want anyone else coming into the simulation, but I think … I think it would be good for both of you if you had a chance to talk. Just for a few minutes, even—I just—I know it’s—”

“Why are you really asking me this, Shuichi?” Kokichi interrupts, and Shuichi tries in vain to hide a wince.

“What do you m-mean?”

“You can tell it’s a bad idea,” he points out. “You don’t even want to think about it. You wouldn’t bring it up if something wasn’t making you desperate.” He raises his head, finally. “So what is it you really want?”

Shuichi doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m… worried about him.”

_Kaito always has us by his side._

The words replay unbidden in his mind and he jerks his head as if to shake the memory out.

“He … he hasn’t been well since he woke up from the simulation,” Shuichi says. “And it seems like he’s getting worse, lately. He has these big shadows under his eyes, and I don’t think he’s been eating, and—and I’m scared for him. I just want my friend back.”

_Look at yourself, Kokichi. You’re alone._

He feels sick to his stomach.

“I really think it would help him. Both of you, really—if you two could talk, I think… you could help each other move on from what happened.”

_You’re alone…._

“Please, Kokichi,” Shuichi says, and it’s a mistake to meet his eyes because they’re so pure and earnest and oblivious all at once that they cut straight into him.

Kokichi hunches in on himself, folding his arms tight enough to make them shake.

“I don’t … want to see him,” he mumbles, but regrets it immediately when Shuichi’s face falls and he looks so _defeated._ “Okay, listen,” he adds even though he has no idea what he’s going to say. _What’s the motive here?_ he can’t help but wonder. Is this another one of the Future Foundation’s ploys to convince him to leave the simulation? Why else would they program a fake Kaito to complement their fake Shuichi?

Unless… Real Kaito was actually the one they were worried about?

He sighs. “If it’ll help him sleep at night, tell him….”

And Shuichi looks up again with so much gratitude in his face already that Kokichi closes his eyes to avoid it. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Tell him… that I have nothing against him,” he says.

“That’s … not a lie?” Shuichi presses.

Kokichi shakes his head idly, still not raising his gaze. “I wanted to wreck the killing game and he wanted to save his friend. We both got what we wanted. I’d say the end more than justifies the means.”

_Was that a lie?_

_(I don’t want to die Shuichi I’m sorry I’m sorry save me Shuichi please I’m sorry ithurtsmakeitstop—)_

His fingers tighten into clawlike shapes, nails digging sharply into his forearms.

“You say that, but … I mean, if there was another way….” Shuichi swallows. “You two never really saw eye to eye, but I know Kaito never wanted … what happened. He never hated you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kokichi says, because one of them might as well be honest. “It was my plan, so the consequences should be mine to deal with, too. Kaito’s a good person and he did the right thing.”

_And if it haunts him for the rest of his life… that’s on me._

The sick feeling in his stomach grows. He deserved everything that had happened to him. He deserved it all, after standing by uselessly while his friends murdered each other and then stepping in only to get two more killed. After betraying them all and sentencing another to potentially a lifetime of trauma and misplaced guilt. He doesn’t deserve the soft ending his story’s been given. He should be dead, he should be forgotten and _erased,_ DICE would be so horrified if they saw what he’d become, Shuichi was right about him, _Shuichi was right—_

“Thank you, Kokichi,” Shuichi is saying. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away and Kokichi doesn’t deserve those sweet words. “I know this is hard for you to talk about, so… thank you. This will mean a lot for Kaito to hear.”

Kokichi forces a shrug and takes another drink in hopes that it’ll disguise the way his eyes are burning. It doesn’t taste like anything. He doesn’t want to be here anymore.

“I really hope you feel well enough to talk to him face to face sometime. And not just him,” Shuichi says, and Kokichi can tell he’s only trying to be nice but he _just doesn’t want to talk about this._ “You and Rantaro would probably get along really well, and I think Kiibo wants to get to know you better, too. And Kaede’s been asking Hajime if she can visit you in here….”

Several of them have asked and keep asking and he’s so tired of denying their requests, how many times does he have to say no before Usami gets it? He’s past wanting to talk, he’s past trying to make amends.

“Will you please let them wake you up, Kokichi? Being in here isn’t helping you heal. I think you know that.”

He stopped caring about that after the first day.

“I just … don’t want to see you waste away like this. You deserve a better ending than that.”

_Stop it stop it stop it—_

“I know none of this is easy. For anyone. But … the only way we’re going to move past it is if we help each other recover,” Shuichi says. “If we forgive and… let ourselves be forgiven, too.”

It’s that idea that pushes him over the edge. That there’s _forgiveness_ of all things waiting for him outside of the simulation. A sardonic and bitter wheeze of laughter pushes the air from his chest until it feels like it’s going to cave in (again). _“Don’t,”_ he growls. “Don’t do that. I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving this place and you’ll never convince me to.”

“Kokichi….” Shuichi reaches out as if to take his hand and he flinches away because he can’t stand to feel that kind of tenderness, can’t stand to be deluded into believing Shuichi would feel anything for him other than hatred.

“I’m never going to leave,” he whispers. “This is my world now.”

“It isn’t real,” Shuichi tells him gently but firmly. “You know it isn’t real. Do you really want to keep lying to yourself like this?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Of course it—! What about what you told Himiko?” Shuichi bursts out. “After Tenko and Angie died, you told her it was wrong to lie to herself. You said it only ever hurts you. What happened to that?”

“A _hydraulic press_ happened to that, _Shuichi!”_

Now it’s Shuichi’s turn to flinch, reaching reflexively to pull down the brim of a hat that isn’t there.

“I may be a hypocrite, but I’m not stupid,” Kokichi continues. “This place is the only version of reality I can stand. So, yes, I’m going to lie to myself, and I’m going to keep doing it for as long as the VR machine keeps my heart beating. That’s the only choice I have left.” A faint smile twists his lips, but only because of how pathetic it sounds out loud. “That’s how this is going to end. With me running away into this sweet, fake little dream with a sweet, fake version of my beloved that doesn’t hate me as much as I do.”

“Kokichi,” Shuichi breathes again. Why does he look like he’s about to cry? “Kokichi, why won’t you believe it’s really me?”

Kokichi looks into those star-bright golden eyes and remembers how they’d been filled with concern when Shuichi bandaged the cut on his hand, how they’d hardened like shards of glass after Gonta’s execution—and how, by the time they’d seen the outside world, they couldn’t even stand to look at him anymore.

“Because the real Shuichi would never want to see me,” he says.

Shuichi shudders at that, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as a strange, choked noise escapes it. “Kokichi… why….”

“Some people just aren’t worth saving.” Something he’s known for a while, something part of him wishes to be proven wrong about but the other part wishes Shuichi would just _realize_ already, give up on him like Kokichi’s given up on himself. “All they’ll ever do is hurt the people they care about. Some people are … just meant to be alone.”

It’s almost funny that it doesn’t hurt to say. It’s been on his mind for so long that putting it to words is just… obvious. Just the truth.

But Shuichi’s too quiet—has been for a weirdly long time, Kokichi realizes—so he reluctantly looks up… and is immediately taken aback by the terrible pain in Shuichi’s expression. He looks horrified, _gutted,_ and his shoulders are shaking and there are tears spilling down his cheeks—

 _Tears?_ He stares, uncomprehending, and wonders why, what it was he said that hurt his beloved, how he could be so thoughtless—

Shuichi stands abruptly and excuses himself in a shaky mumble, and then he’s gone and the restaurant’s quiet and relaxed and sickeningly normal and Kokichi’s … numb.

_I made Shuichi cry._

Why? Shuichi shouldn’t cry, he’s… he’s safe, and he’s with his friends, and— He’s a _computer program,_ he shouldn’t be able to—

_I hurt him._

It doesn’t make sense, the simulation’s never done something like that before—it must be a malfunction, or something the Future Foundation threw in to manipulate him into—

_I always hurt him._

He’s so sick of seeing Shuichi hurt, and even more sick of being the one responsible. Why is pain the only thing he can offer him?

_I made him leave._

He doesn’t want to be alone.

_He left and he’s not coming back._

Panic sets in and he lurches to his feet, staggering toward the exit. Shuichi shouldn’t be sad, he’s the only thing that makes this world bearable, he can’t just _leave—_

He runs, wild and frantic and despairing, heart spasming the way it did when he had poison crawling through his veins and eating him from the inside out. The hollow spaces the Strike-9 had left behind are filled up with terror now, and a sort of helpless, screaming need, like if he doesn’t get to the log-out point before Shuichi disappears, he’s actually going to die. He wishes he would—he wishes there was another machine here to kill him again, because he doesn’t deserve to take another step toward his beloved but the very thought of being away from him for another second is _agony._

He catches up to Shuichi on the bridge leading to the second island and hears himself yell the other’s name in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. Shuichi turns back and Kokichi grabs his hand in both of his own, gasping for breath as he chokes out, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Shuichi, I’m so sorry, please don’t leave.”

“Why not?” Shuichi swipes a few tears away with the sleeve of his free arm. “I-I thought you wanted—”

“Don’t go, Shuichi, I’m so sorry, I—that was so dumb, what I said, please don’t be sad anymore.” He’s not sure if he can’t breathe because of the exertion of running or because of the hysteria boiling over in his head. “Please don’t go, I didn’t mean to hurt you—please don’t leave, Shuichi, I’m _so sorry.”_

“Oh, Kokichi….” Shuichi’s tone is strange, soft and pitying, like he sees something Kokichi doesn’t, and he shakes his head slowly as more tears follow the paths of the others.

Kokichi goes to his knees, ready to _grovel_ if that’s what it takes, but Shuichi follows him down, closing his other hand over Kokichi’s, and then they’re both crying and he doesn’t know why, and all he can do is repeat a mantra of _I’m sorry_ and hold on as tight as he can.

It’s horrible. Shuichi’s horrible. Shuichi’s wonderful, and kind and lovely and perfect and Kokichi hates him, Kokichi adores him, and it doesn’t matter because Shuichi’s not actually here but Kokichi doesn’t want to be alone _just let me pretend some more, please, please let me have this—_

“I’ll… I’ll stay,” Shuichi says at last. “I can stay a while longer.”

 _You shouldn’t,_ Kokichi wants to say, but his mouth won’t obey him. _You shouldn’t stay if you don’t want to. I don’t deserve having you here. I’m not worth your mercy._

But there on the bridge, crying tears of relief, he soaks up as much mercy as he can get and hopes it’s enough to drown him.

They end up on the beach, walking the perimeter of the first island, with only the not-quite-full moon lighting their way. It hangs high and bright against a panorama of more stars than Kokichi’s ever seen, glittering in the palm fronds, its thousand fractured reflections shimmering across the expanse of sea. Like a broken mirror, or a line of static across a screen.

The waves hiss over the pristine white sand, narrowly missing Kokichi’s feet each time. It’s quiet in a way that aches somehow, and everything feels misty and unreal, like he’s seeing it through a pane of glass. He can’t seem to come out of the daze, either. Feels like the hurricane of thoughts from earlier has drained him dry—he can’t _think,_ and while it’s a stark contrast to before, it’s just as unpleasant.

At least … at least he’s not alone right now?

_(He might as well be, this is all just an elaborate dream and the magic is falling apart around him. The phantasm walking at his side is just that—just another lie, just the ghost of everything he’s ever wanted—he wishes he was currently delusional enough to believe it.)_

But Shuichi—Shuichi’s _holding his hand,_ gently but firmly, like he actually wants to be doing it, and his thumb is brushing softly over Kokichi’s—

Kokichi’s suddenly hyperaware of that, of the softness of Shuichi’s fingers and the coolness of his skin, so much so that he stumbles.

“Ah—are you all right, Kokichi?”

He can’t resist looking up at the sweet concern in Shuichi’s eyes. Those long lashes make them look so big and bright in the moonlight. Kokichi accidentally glances down at his lips as he looks away. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I’m… I’m sorry for making you upset,” Shuichi murmurs.

Kokichi shakes his head, squeezing Shuichi’s hand tighter. “Wasn’t your fault,” he says, and it isn’t. It’s his own fault for being so pathetic and obsessive and clingy—

Clingy. His free arm is hugging Shuichi’s arm to his chest, probably too tightly. He loosens his grip but can’t quite bring himself to let go. Just being this close to Shuichi is making him dizzy with feelings he doesn’t want to put names to. They hurt, like cutting his finger in the knife game. They’re warm, like Shuichi blushing as he hands him a pack of explosive bubble gum because _it reminded me of you._ They burn deep down inside him, the same way they did when his legs gave out in the hangar and Kaito had to drag him to the machine and he laid there staring at the slab of metal and cried and wished and regretted everything. Shuichi makes him _feel,_ more and more, over and over, and he hates it and he loves it and he wants it to stop and he hopes it never does.

“Hey….” Shuichi slows to a stop, his other hand coming over to touch Kokichi’s wrist. “Let’s sit down for a while, okay?”

 _Anything you want,_ he wants to say. _Anything that lets me be with you just a little longer,_ he wants to say.

He nods instead, lets Shuichi lead him up to the drier stretch of sand. If only it was this simple—if they’d met in another life, maybe, if they’d gone to the same school or something stupid and mundane like that, and they’d snuck away from the dorms for a cute little walk on the beach—another life where they both didn’t have death and despair written into every line of their memories, didn’t have the ghosts of their friends hanging around their necks—

“I wish….” Shuichi speaks up out of the blue, then pauses to swallow thickly. He sounds so tired. “I wish I could take it all away. I wish there was anything I could do.” His breath catches, and he brings a hand up to his eyes. “I just wish I could make us all stop hurting.”

Kokichi looks down at their interlocked fingers.

In another life, Shuichi would still deserve better.

He bumps his forehead against Shuichi’s shoulder as if in response, closing his eyes.

In the game, the monitors would play a cheerful jingle every time they lost another friend. Even the first time, moments before he’d known what it meant, the little _ding dong, dong ding_ had sent a rush of dread down his spine, an inexplicable sixth sense warning of something very wrong. He gets the same jolt in his stomach every time the alarm on Shuichi’s watch goes off, every time the quiet and deceptively innocuous beeping shatters whatever illusion he’s holding onto.

This time, when the alarm cuts through their mutual silence, Shuichi himself startles at the sound, quickly reaching to turn it off. His shoulders sag, and Kokichi presses his face against Shuichi’s upper arm, throat clenching painfully.

“Kokichi….” Shuichi says his name slowly, sadly, as if Kokichi doesn’t already know what’s coming.

“Why do you have to go?” The words slip out without him realizing it, so, so quietly that they’re hardly a whisper.

Shuichi’s hand brushes over Kokichi’s, then pulls back, like he’s not sure if the gesture is welcome. “I—Kokichi, you know I’d stay if I could….” He falters. “The doctors won’t let me back in if I break the rules…. I’m not hooked up to the life support systems like you are, and….”

It physically pains Kokichi to let go of his arm. He stands up with a shaky breath. The numbness from before has returned, and with it, a weird acceptance—the same as what he’d felt back in the hangar, when he’d looked up from pages and pages of useless murder scripts, and his attention locked on the gleaming metal machine and a cold understanding washed over him and he _knew._

Shuichi stands up, still half-reaching for him. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he says, almost pleadingly. “Kokichi, you know I’d….”

“I’ll walk you back.” It sounds like a question when he says it.

Shuichi exhales and nods. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

Shuichi can give as many excuses as he likes, Kokichi thinks as they walk, but there’s no reason for a computer program to need to be turned off every now and then. It doesn’t make any sense, especially when there are so many other programs wandering around without similar rules attached. Maybe if he bullied Usami some more, he could uncover the truth.

Or maybe the truth was that not even a fake Shuichi could stand to be near him too long.

 _It would make sense,_ he decides. As astoundingly lifelike as Fake Shuichi is, the programmers had to have based him off of the real thing. They just … trimmed out the parts that would lash out, watered down all the bad memories until the AI would realistically display kindness. Kindness, not forgiveness. It still hates him; it’s just programmed to be nice about it.

Fake Shuichi is a beautiful lie, a self-indulgent dream-in-a-dream, a bittersweet reminder of what could have been.

_What could have been…._

Kokichi glances at the apparition walking beside him and remembers Shuichi frowning in concentration as Kokichi told him lie after not-exactly-lie about a secret evil organization. How he’d asked about Kokichi’s talent and _kept asking,_ long after anyone else would have thrown up their hands in exasperation and walked away. He remembers how Shuichi had smiled with a shy _Thank you, this is just how I like it,_ when Kokichi had, mostly as a joke, offered him coffee at their tea party. He remembers the way he felt when Shuichi laughed at his jokes, and how Shuichi spluttered whenever Kokichi called him his _beloved detective._ He remembers Shuichi seeking him out, playing mindless mind games with him, talking about lies, talking about the truth.

And he thinks, _I could have made you happy, Shuichi._

He remembers … and he remembers Shuichi laughing with Maki and Kaito in the courtyard. Shuichi discussing his favorite mystery novels with Kirumi. Shuichi and Gonta holding little cups of sugar water, surrounded by a cloud of butterflies. Shuichi listening with rapt atttention to one of Kiyo’s lectures. Shuichi and Rantaro looking through a travel journal and talking about dream vacations. Shuichi in Kaede’s lab, lost in memories and the melody of _Claire de Lune._

And he thinks, _Anyone can make Shuichi happy._

The ruins stand before them, overtaken by greenery except for the massive door and the word _mirai_ engraved into it. _Future._ A future Shuichi himself represented, just as close, just as far away, just as undeserved.

The door rumbles and slides open when they approach, revealing the bright light of the log-out point that took Shuichi away every time, that would wake Kokichi up in his real body if he walked into it. Shuichi stops just a step away from it, biting his lip as if searching for something to say, but before he can find it, Kokichi reaches out to tug at his sleeve.

“Shuichi?” he says, distant as the waves on the beach that he can still hear if he listens closely enough. Shuichi turns back toward him. “Before you go, can I be selfish one more time?”

“Huh…?”

Shuichi doesn’t move when Kokichi steps closer, reaches up to ghost his fingertips over Shuichi’s jaw and around the back of his neck. He lets Kokichi tilt his head downward, lets him hover inches away, close enough to feel their breath mingle in the night air. Kokichi pauses there to give him the chance to pull away. He doesn’t.

So Kokichi closes his eyes and the distance between them.

And he thinks, _You are everything I’ve ever wanted._

And he thinks, _I will never be enough for you._

And he thinks, _I love you, Shuichi._

_I love you._

_I…._

It means everything in the world and absolutely nothing, and it hurts, it hurts so much that he can barely think through it—but it’s heaven and he never wants it to end. Shuichi’s lips are so soft. Everything about Shuichi is soft, soft and gentle and sweet and _good._ He deserves the world and Kokichi wishes he could give it to him. Wishes he could tell him the truth.

Wishes everything was different.

Slowly, he slides his hand down to Shuichi’s shoulder, using it as leverage to push himself away. That hurts even more. He can’t seem to open his eyes, and he feels so weakened, breathless, fragile. Cracked open, hollowed out.

When he finally does open his eyes, Shuichi’s are wide with some mix of astonishment and a dozen other emotions. Kokichi bows his head, taking a deep breath to ground himself. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I just wanted to know.”

“Kokichi,” Shuichi breathes, like a bullet through his heart.

“Goodbye, Shuichi,” Kokichi says, and shoves him into the light.

Shuichi’s little yelp of surprise cuts off abruptly as he falls through the door, vanishing into the glow, and all too soon, Kokichi’s alone again in a dream that suddenly seems far too vast. Alone, with the faintest taste of Shuichi’s lips still lingering on his own.

And he thinks, _It was enough just to know you._

It’s a lie.

Fake sun rises over fake ocean, fake seagulls glide through fake sky while fake wind tousles fake palm fronds. Kokichi lies on his stomach in the fake grass and talks to his fake family in the fake notebook. Gives them fake names and runs through everything he remembers about them. Apologizes, over and over, wishes he could hug each of them goodbye one last time. Wonders if it would be more painful to die or to never have existed at all.

He leaves the notebook of his memories on the seat of one of the ferris wheel cars on the fourth island, because one time he promised them they’d steal the London Eye together.

He buys a can of fake soda from the fake convenience store on the first island and sits on the fake beach watching the fake waves. Wonders when he’d hit the end of the simulation if he started swimming, or if he’d drown first.

White sand, blue sea, bluer sky. Washed out, like an amateur watercolor painting.

He opens the soda can and raises it to his mouth, but … even the thought of drinking it makes him sick to his stomach. He sets it down in the sand and flicks it over, watching the bubbly liquid run down and sink into the sand. The color’s all wrong, like blood streaked against a metal floor.

He walks the fake streets of the fifth island, passing fake skyscrapers and fake commuters and their fake conversations, until he finally stops outside the factory he’s never been able to bring himself to go into. Smells like oil, and metal and machines and he can hear the _sounds_ and he’s immediately back in the hangar, dizzy on adrenaline and desperation and leaning heavily on Kaito so he doesn’t keel over and die then and there. Kaito says something about how maybe he should sit down for a minute, and Kokichi didn’t agree back then but he does now, goes down on all fours and dry heaves.

When his vision solidifies and he can stop gasping for breath, he sits up and presses his back against the factory wall, covering his ears and hiding his face in his knees. Tries to convince himself not to imagine Shuichi’s there with him, holding his hand again, promising everything’s going to be okay.

 _“I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you anymore,”_ or maybe, _“Breathe with me, it’ll be over soon. You’re safe now.”_

_I love you._

He laughs until there’s nothing left in his lungs. He called these little daydreams _obsession_ , before, but now they just seem sick and insane.

Someone gingerly taps his shoulder, and he already knows who it is and remembers how much he hates them before he raises his head to Usami’s concerned face.

“Kokichi?” she says gently. “Um… as you know, I’m programmed to appear when you’re in a lot of distress, and, um….” She shuffles uncomfortably. “W-would you like a hug?”

Kokichi can’t even bring himself to spit his usual vitriol at her.

He thinks he stares blankly at her for a few moments too long, though, because she squirms again and says, “I don’t really think the factory is a good place for you to be. I’ll have the Future Foundation edit out this area of the map, s-so….” She tugs on his sleeve and Kokichi slowly, slowly, mechanically stands up. “Um, let’s find a different activity! Do you like movies? Have you seen the vendor shops on this island already? Oh, I mean, of course you have—um, but what about the cart that sells candy?”

He tunes her out completely, lets her lead him somewhere or another, but when he looks back over his shoulder to the factory, he wonders again if there’s anything useful inside.

Then his gaze drifts higher, up to the tops of the skyscrapers, and he thinks, _hmm._

Usami’s set up a picnic, of all things, next to the ranch on the first island. Red-checkered blanket and everything. He should laugh because it’s funny, it really is, how spectacularly ignorant she is for a post-killing-game-reintegration-into-real-life program.

She puts a piece of strawberry shortcake out in front of him and then takes one for herself, telling some story about…. He doesn’t care, _can’t_ care, can barely hear her voice over whatever his brain is doing. It’s so quiet but so _loud,_ just blankness and the press’s humming, over and over, phantom pains crawling all over his body.

_(He’s so tired of that feeling.)_

He doesn’t want to be here but there’s nowhere else to be, nothing else to do; he’s scoured every island over and over and they feel less real every time. He’s starting to wonder if _he’s_ real, or if whatever he is right now counts as _alive._ He’s just a heavily sedated shell of a body in a machine in a hospital, dreaming about stuffed pink rabbits and tropical beaches and amusement parks and soft hands and a quiet, kind voice and the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen—

That’s who it always comes back to. The ghost at the edge of his every thought. Somewhere outside, Real Shuichi’s with the people he loves, learning to heal, leaving the killing game far behind him. Leaving Kokichi behind, too, and that’s fine, that’s fine, he’s fine with that, that’s how it should be, because Shuichi’s already been too kind to leave an echo of himself buried in the simulation for Kokichi to hold onto. Shuichi’s allowed to leave. Shuichi’s allowed to forget someone who only ever hurt him.

Kokichi’s allowed to fantasize and play along with the fake Shuichi that insists it’s real, but he really _shouldn’t be,_ because he thinks that’s what’s drawn this whole thing out longer than it’s had any right to be.

He’s tired.

Tired of the fake worlds, tired of the memories, tired of the consequences he didn’t plan on having to face after his own murder. Tired of feeling nothing but guilt and loneliness and despair.

And he’s so, so tired of pretending.

“Usami.” His voice sounds unnaturally rough, and he interrupted her right in the middle of a sentence, but she seems more startled than upset. “Let’s play a game.”

“Ha-wa-wa! A… what?” She comes to her senses a second later. “Oh! I love playing games with my students! What would you like to play?”

“Do you want your notebook back?”

Usami splutters. “I-I … yes! Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask about that!”

“If you find it, you can have it.”

“If I….” When the dots connect, Usami quivers. “Ohhh… I’m not very good at scavenger hunts….”

“If you _don’t_ find it before the sun sets, I’ll burn it,” he adds, and Usami squeals.

“H-hey! That’s not fair!”

“It’s somewhere on this island.” He leans back on his hands. “Good luck. Time starts now.”

“Aaaah!” Usami covers her ears with her paws and hurries off as fast as her stubby legs can carry her. “That’s so meeean!”

Once she disappears around the farmhouse, Kokichi stands up, one hand brushing the object in his pocket. _Somewhere on this island._ He hadn’t been lying about that.

It should keep her distracted long enough.

He makes his way through each of the islands (nothing’s changed, not that he expected it to) until he reaches the fifth again. Here he finds the only difference: the factory’s been replaced with a park, complete with a playground and a baseball diamond. The Foundation animators work quicker than he’d thought. The skyscrapers are still there, though, so he chooses the tallest one and walks inside.

There’s no receptionist to ask him any questions, so he finds the elevator and pushes the button for the top floor. As he waits, he presses his back to the wall and takes the notebook from his pocket, turning to his favorite page.

_Day 11: Shuichi came to visit! He’s really nice and he made Kokichi smile!_

He remembers that day. Remembers how stunned he’d been when the other boy walked up out of nowhere, as unsure and terrified as he’d been the first time Kokichi ever saw him. Asked if they could talk, because he wanted to apologize.

As if Shuichi Saihara had anything to apologize for.

He remembers how he’d been too surprised to respond beyond an eloquent _uh-huh,_ how Shuichi had taken him to the central island’s park because that was closest, how they’d sat beneath the shade of a tree while Shuichi just … talked. Explained everything, even though Kokichi had heard the story by then, everything that happened since he’d died. Shuichi had looked so miserable, hands trembling as they worried at his sleeves, like he was expecting Kokichi to snap at him. He’d finally finished with a shaky sigh and mumbled, _“It’s okay if you hate me, but … I just wanted you to know that I … that I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to help you. You … deserved better than that.”_

He’d known Shuichi wasn’t real by then—everything he’d said was far, far too good to be true—but still, he couldn’t help but blurt out, _“Shuichi, how could I ever hate you? You do realize you almost singlehandedly destroyed the killing game, right?”_

_“Because… because I said some awful things to you, and I never—”_

_“And you defeated the mastermind, and avenged everyone’s deaths, and made sure no one has to go through what we did ever again. What’s your point?”_

Shuichi had coughed out a weird not-quite-laugh, drying his eyes with the back of his hand. _“You … you have to be a little bit mad, at least,”_ he’d said, and Kokichi had shrugged.

 _“What for? I got what I deserved.”_ Then, before Shuichi could do anything dumb like protest, he’d nudged his shoulder. “Smile, _geez. We’re all alive, it’s going to get better.”_

Another not-laugh, then Shuichi, still teary-eyed, gave him the kind of smile he’d die for. _“Then, you have to smile, too,”_ he’d said, and Kokichi really hadn’t wanted to—hadn’t had the energy to make almost any expression since he’d woken up—but Shuichi was so sincere and pure and _nice_ that he’d finally caved and quirked up the corners of his mouth.

It had felt … more honest than he’d expected it to.

The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open. Kokichi heads for the adjacent stairwell immediately, and just as immediately finds a locked door at the very top.

Well. “Locked,” with quotation marks, because it’s another pin tumbler lock, meaning it’s open in thirty seconds flat.

The roof is as empty as the rest of the building. Just him and the wind and the sky. Suddenly, blissfully, everything’s completely silent.

And he thinks, _Okay, then._

He sets Usami’s notebook down against the wall near the door and moves to walk around the perimeter of the roof, slowly, fixated on the line where cement meets open air as if it’s the only thing that exists. Heel-to-toe steps, as careful as walking down the stairs from the machine’s control panel in the hangar, holding onto the railing with both hands because he knew how much it would hurt if he collapsed and he didn’t want Kaito to have to listen to him scream again.

It’s familiar in a way that shouldn’t be comforting, this feeling of resignation, of cold focus taking over. Everything’s hyperreal, here at the edge of life and death.

He stops when he finds a good place and stares down, down, down at the sidewalk.

And he thinks, _It’s not going to hurt._

That was the worst part about last time—the poison searing his nerves every time he moved, the taste of blood at the back of his throat. The moment the machine started moving and he realized, _This is going to be so much slower than I thought._

Falling, though. He’d feel the landing, sure, but only for a second. It wouldn’t even compare to counting the snaps of his ribs, feeling fractures spiderwebbing across his skull, choking for air as broken bones sliced his lungs apart. He’d take falling over _that_ any day.

And after this, he won’t have to remember either one.

He steps up onto the lip of concrete at the edge of the roof and takes a few slow, deep breaths. Looks up to the sky and … it’s so blue. It goes on forever and it’s _so, so blue_.

He’ll miss the sky. He’ll miss the wind, and the stars, and the smell of rain, and the sound of birds and the way sunlight feels and the taste of soda and all the wonderful things in the world.

And _him._

He’ll miss Shuichi more than he’ll ever be able to say.

He closes his eyes.

And he thinks, _It’s better this way._

And someone _screams._

Kokichi jolts as a pair of arms lock around his torso, so sudden that it doesn’t cross his mind that he should struggle. Whoever it is steps back and bodily _hauls_ him away from the precipice. There’s a faint flicker of something like disappointment that quickly turns to alarm when the other person loses their balance and both of them topple over, landing hard on the roof.

And then, Kokichi finds himself staring at the concrete, mouth open in disbelief because he _recognizes—_

 _“Shuichi?”_ he breathes.

As if in confirmation, the arms around him tighten until he can barely breathe. Shuichi’s crying, he realizes, his face pressed to the back of Kokichi’s neck.

 _What a nice hallucination,_ he thinks dizzily. The last ones weren’t so gentle, when the delirium started to take over and he kept seeing Miu and Gonta lurking in his periphery. Is this his subconscious’s way of softening the blow, as he falls?

…Why hasn’t he landed yet?

“Kokichi….” Shuichi’s saying his name, over and over, trembling as he holds Kokichi close. “Kokichi, don’t do this, don’t do this, _please….”_

Is he really…?

“Shuichi?” he says again, because it really doesn’t make any sense. He shouldn’t be awake right now, he should have broken his mind to pieces on the pavement and _disappeared,_ why isn’t he _gone?_

Shuichi just sobs harder against his skin.

“Shuichi, why are you crying?” Kokichi hears himself ask. He should probably fight, thrash out of his grip and finish what he’d started, but he’s so _tired_ that he doesn’t think he could move his limbs if he tried.

“Don’t do this.” Shuichi’s barely coherent, with the way his cries shake his whole frame. “Don’t go, Kokichi, don’t make me lose you again.”

“You know it’s not really going to kill me,” Kokichi says. “If I don’t respawn on that beach… I’ll just go into a coma, right?”

He’d guessed as much from what Hinata had told him the first day, from what little he knew of VR simulations. If the only damage he could do to himself was psychological, then _enough_ psychological damage would shut his mind down for good, right?

“Please, Kokichi, please don’t go, don’t do this… don’t _leave.”_

“I’ll close my eyes and sleep forever,” Kokichi mumbles. “I won’t have to remember anymore, and I won’t have any more nightmares, and….” His voice breaks. “And I won’t feel like _this.”_

But Shuichi just keeps whispering his name, pleading with him, tears falling hot on his skin.

He made Shuichi cry again.

He hurt Shuichi _again._

“Shuichi?” he says, chest aching. “Shuichi, please don’t cry. I… I didn’t want you to _cry,_ I….”

And now he’s crying, too. He’s so sick of crying.

He curls in on himself and _breaks._

Shuichi’s the only thing that’s real, in the time that follows. Just Shuichi’s chest against his back and the arms around him, anchors in the despair shredding at his mind. Nothing else exists, just Shuichi and the _agony_ threatening to consume him.

_It hurts, Shuichi, just let me die, I don’t want to remember anymore Shuichi I can’t do this I can’t I can’t I can’t Shuichi please…._

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. _Please make it stop. Please, keep holding me. Please feel something for me other than contempt._

He deserves this, he decides. He deserves to _live_ with himself. How dare he—how _dare he_ act like he’s the victim after everything he’s done? How dare he try to take the easy way out as if doing so would wash the blood from his hands? _How dare he_ make this precious, beautiful angel cry for him?

_How dare he feel so relieved to be alive?_

He cries until all that’s left are shuddering gasps for air, exhaustion draining him dry. The adrenaline rush has left him weak and shaky, but the dull disappointment hasn’t left. He really wishes Shuichi wasn’t so smart, sometimes. Now he’s going to have to _talk,_ and Shuichi will look at him with that wounded expression, and Kokichi will have to explain everything to Hinata once he finds out, and then Hinata will go and run his mouth to the others, and then Usami will bring him a bunch of messages from people who will try desperately to pretend they’re glad he isn’t a bunch of broken pixels scattered over the virtual pavement. A peppy _Don’t give up, I know you can get through this!_ from Kaede, and then a _We’re here for you whenever you need us_ from Rantaro, and then probably something from … _Gonta…._

_You should have just let me die, Shuichi._

Shuichi sits up, slowly, keeping a firm grip on him, and plants his arm on Kokichi’s other side—caging him in, like he’s scared he’ll make a break for the edge of the roof again. Valid, of course, but Kokichi doesn’t really think he has the energy.

He rolls over onto his back instead, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow as he gets his breathing under control. His head hurts.

“How did you know?” he finally croaks.

Shuichi’s breathing still sounds shaky, too. “Because you said ‘goodbye,’” he says.

Kokichi finally looks up at him in a silent question.

“You never say goodbye,” Shuichi says, rubbing his sleeve over his eyes. “It’s always….”

“‘See you later,’” Kokichi finishes for him. Despite himself, a tiny huff of astonished laughter escapes him. _“I_ didn’t even know, not until a couple of hours ago. And you figured it all out from one word?”

Shuichi bites his lip at that. “You _kissed me,”_ he says.

Kokichi’s stomach twists and he looks away. “I said I was sorry—”

 _“No.”_ Shuichi squeezes his hand into a fist and lets it fall to _thump_ against Kokichi’s chest, like he’s trying to knock some sense into him. “It was so honest, and vulnerable, and… and I know how much you hate showing how you really feel.” Another tiny sob catches in his throat. “And so it felt like … like something you’d do if you weren’t going to s-see me again.”

“Shuichi….” Kokichi trails off as Shuichi muffles his cries in his hand again. He’s so _breathtakingly_ smart. There’s no one else in the world who thinks that way, no one else who could possibly be that attentive and that clever. Not a programmer, not a team of shrinks… how can an AI manage it? How is it that Shuichi always manages to take him by surprise? How can he see straight through him when he least expects it?

Kokichi’s hand reaches up to Shuichi’s cheek. Reverently traces the path of the tears falling down it.

“I wish you were real,” he confesses in a whisper.

Shuichi looks like he can’t decide whether to feel angry, confused, sad, or hurt. He somehow manages all of the above when he bursts out, “I _am!_ That’s what I’ve been trying to _tell you!_ That’s what I … all this time, I… why are you so _stubborn?”_ His fist thumps Kokichi’s chest again. “Why won’t you believe that I’m here? That I want to help?”

“Because I—”

“I’m doing it because I care about you, stupid!”

The admission comes out of nowhere. Shuts him up as quickly as a slap to the face.

_…What?_

Kokichi scans his face for a tell, some hint of the lie that must be there—why, why can’t he find it? Why are frustration and desperate honesty all he can see?

Shuichi— _Shuichi—_

_I care about you._

_What is this?_ he wants to demand. _It’s not funny, this isn’t funny, stop it—_

_I care about you._

Slowly, Kokichi brings his arms back behind him, propping himself up on his elbows. “Can you let me up?”

Shuichi tenses. “Are you going to—”

“No.”

“…Is that a lie?”

Kokichi’s gaze wanders to the edge of the roof, then back to the ground. Shuichi’s here.

Shuichi….

_I care about you._

Shuichi doesn’t want him to die?

“I … it’s not a lie.”

They sit up, hesitantly, not looking at each other. Shuichi holds out his hand, and Kokichi takes it without thinking, squeezing too tightly, because the doubt is back with a vengeance. Shuichi doesn’t care. He wouldn’t. _He hates me. He hates me and I deserve it, he wouldn’t be here, he’d never—he doesn’t—_

“You don’t believe me,” Shuichi says. Reads his mind, again.

“You can’t be real,” Kokichi says. “None of this—you _can’t.”_

“I can show you the simulation’s log-in and log-out record, so you can see who’s been here and when.”

“Too easy to fabricate.”

“I can show you the security camera feed of the room we’re in. I’m lying in the VR capsule right next to yours.”

“You were in a simulation of your own, before. They could just splice the feeds together so it looks like we’re both there.”

“I can get Usami or the doctors or even Hajime to tell you. It’s the truth, Kokichi.”

“There’s no way for me to know for sure.”

“Exactly.”

Kokichi raises his head. Shuichi looks tired in the same way that Kokichi is—exhausted down to the bones. It shows in the shadows in his eyes.

“I can’t give you any evidence you’d believe,” Shuichi says. “That’s just not how you are, is it? You don’t trust anything until you’re absolutely certain.”

He’s right, of course. He’s right and Kokichi hates it—Shuichi taking the time to figure him out always made him feel fluttery inside, but not when he figured out the ugly parts. Not when he exposed just how awful of a person he was.

Shuichi’s hand comes up to Kokichi’s chin, turning his head back to face him. “Something has to change, Kokichi,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to become a different person. I’m not. But you don’t want to live like this anymore, and… I hate seeing you so miserable.”

 _What do you suggest I do?_ Kokichi wants to ask, but doesn’t trust himself to speak. He thinks it shows on his face, anyway.

“Will you try something different with me?” Shuichi says. “Have faith in me, like you did before.”

 _Like before._ Like all the times he hadn’t called Shuichi out for lying during the trials? Like when he’d agreed to spend time with him, even knowing that anyone could be the mastermind?

Like when he’d set his picture aside on his whiteboard?

Kokichi understands, and yet….

“I _can’t,”_ he says. “The stakes are too high.”

“And they weren’t before?”

“If you’re lying to me—” Kokichi’s throat closes off abruptly; he takes a deep breath and tries again. “If you’re lying to me, and I wake up—”

“What would I gain by lying to you, Kokichi?”

Kokichi pulls his hand away from Shuichi’s and prods him in the chest. _“You,”_ he says, “are the Future Foundation. You want everyone to get better, to _move on,_ and it’s probably in your programming to use any means necessary to get me to do that.” His shoulders tremble; of _course_ he’s crying again. “You’re trying to get a fake Shuichi to convince me that the real Shuichi doesn’t hate me after everything I’ve done, but _you don’t get it._ It’s not worth waking up or even being alive at all if Shuichi Saihara….”

There’s something in the way Shuichi’s looking at him that makes him trail off. He’s so close, inches away in fact, holding Kokichi’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing away his tears. He’s blinking back tears of his own, sun-gold eyes glistening, too beautiful to look away from for a second.

“I forgive you,” Shuichi says, and kisses him.

Everything stops.

Kokichi thinks he actually gasped. His hands clutch Shuichi’s shirt to keep his balance, and it’s a good thing he was already on the ground or he might have fallen over. Shuichi’s so careful, so tender, but so _deliberate,_ like there’s so much he wants to say but this is the only way he knows how—with three words straight to the heart, and then a kiss to bring him back to life.

_He’s so soft._

Shuichi’s thumbs stroke the arches of Kokichi’s cheekbones as he pulls away. Those eyes lock onto his again, holding him in place, and there’s so much _emotion_ in their depths—yearning and sorrow and compassion and raw honesty—it takes his breath away.

“I forgive you,” Shuichi repeats. Kokichi’s completely speechless.

And he thinks, _I love you._

And Shuichi leans in and kisses him again _,_ and Kokichi closes his eyes and memorizes the feeling of those lips against his, because he’ll never be able to get enough. He’s drunk on the sensation, on the impossibility of it all, Shuichi’s words echoing in his head—and nothing feels this good unless it’s a lie, so why can’t he come up with a refutation? Why does Shuichi feel so real, so sincere?

He can’t bring himself to break away, but it’s almost as if Shuichi senses his hesitation anyway, because one of his hands slips around the back of Kokichi’s head, fingers curling lightly in his hair. The other hand shifts to cup his jaw, bringing them even closer together, and Kokichi _melts._

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t be real, but it’s impossible to fake this.

And that means he’s telling the _truth._

When they separate, Shuichi keeps their foreheads pressed together and just … holds him, cradles his face in his hands like he doesn’t want to let go, like he meant every word he said.

And then he says it _again._

“I forgive you, Kokichi. Please give me another chance.”

Kokichi’s weak, deep down to his core, weak for this man. Already knows he’d do anything for him, and the thought is terrifying—that one person could have that much power over him, even if he doesn’t realize it.

But what if he has realized it? Couldn’t this all be an elaborate ruse, a lie he knew Kokichi would be so desperate to believe that he wouldn’t bother questioning it?

…Shuichi’s never hurt him, though. Only that one time, when he really deserved it. Shuichi wouldn’t … _betray_ him, even for what he thinks is Kokichi’s own good. They’re… different from each other, that way.

But _still…._

“I’m so scared, Shuichi.” It’s barely a whisper. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You won’t be.” It’s so hard to be skeptical, lost in his eyes. “I’ll be right there with you, for as long as you want. I won’t let you feel like this anymore.”

 _Promise me,_ he wants to blurt out. _Promise you’ll stay. Promise me you’ll never leave me, Shuichi,_ he wants to demand, but that’s wrong, that’s manipulative and selfish and everything he doesn’t want to be for Shuichi anymore.

Shuichi, of course, says it anyway.

“I promise, Kokichi.”

And the last of his resistance cracks and falls away.

_They stand in front of the ruin’s doors, in front of the glowing log-out point, the way they’ve done countless times. This time, though, their hands are clasped together—one white-knuckled and trembling, the other soothing, steadying._

_Shuichi’s waiting for him to act first, Kokichi knows, and it’s so sweet—but as much as he’s grown to hate this place, he can’t bring himself to take another step toward the exit._

_He’s real, he reminds himself. Shuichi’s real, he’s here with me. He’ll still be there when I wake up. He wouldn’t just…._

_On impulse, he turns toward Shuichi and grabs his wrist with his other hand. “Kiss me again,” he says. “Please?”_

_Shuichi leans in close, then pauses, his brow furrowing the way it does when he catches him in a lie._

_“I’ll kiss you again in the real world,” Shuichi says. “Okay?”_

_Kokichi shakes his head. “Shuichi,_ please.” _Please, I don’t think I can do this. Please, I don’t want to wake up to a lie. Please, one last kiss for me to remember in case it was all fake._

_Shuichi reaches out to tilt his chin up and Kokichi closes his eyes, savoring every second, burning it into his memory._

_Shuichi’s soft breath ghosts over his lips._

_“Trust me,” he murmurs._

_Kokichi’s eyes flutter back open, searching his face. Shifting him around on the white board in his head, seeing what categories he fits into this time. Weird, of course. Suspicious, maybe not. Trustworthy?_

_Trustworthy…._

_“I do trust you,” he realizes._

_And Shuichi just—he looks so happy to hear that. Kokichi never wants to stop looking at him, never wants to be anywhere other than where he is._

_“Let’s go home,” Shuichi says._

_And Kokichi nods and follows him into the light._

**Author's Note:**

> Additional CW: implied unhealthy relationship dynamics (but it’s not on purpose, no one’s being abused, and it’s eventually resolved), major depressive episode and its resulting thought processes, graphic suicidal ideation including suicide planning, suicide attempt
> 
> Salty Pimp is actually a real ice cream, by the way; check it out at Big Gay Ice Cream next time you’re in New York -> https://www.biggayicecream.com/shop-treats/  
> Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated! I really want to improve, so let me know if there’s something I can work on!


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